e Magus

The other morning, my wife was looking out of the window as the school bus pulled away. A few children, as usual, had missed it. Casually, she remarked: “Have you noticed? The ones who are mostly on time are South Indians, and the ones who aren’t tend to be North Indians.” I thought to myself, it isn’t about the kids, it is about rice and wheat, reflecting on what I read longtime back in Sapiens: A Brief History of Humankind.   Yuval Noah Harari has a way of making us see the invisible. In Sapiens, Harari writes about the difference between rice and wheat civilisations. Rice, he points out, is a demanding crop. It needs constant tending, precise water control, endless labor. Wheat, on the other hand, grows with less fuss. Plant it, pray for rain, and wait. From this difference, he says, emerge two distinct work ethics — rice societies become disciplined, cooperative, and patient; wheat societies lean toward individualism, bursts of energy, and risk-taking. One needn’t need to trave...

I heard the word “seasoning” on a cooking show the other day and realised we almost never use it outside the kitchen anymore. It used to be a wider verb. A new cricket bat had to be seasoned— Linseed oiled, wrapped, knocked for hours until it felt right in the hands. As an aside, the bats used to highlight if they were with ‘fish-cover’ which for a long time I thought was a bat wrapped in fish-skin..until years later I realised, it was a kind of plastic wrap on the blade of the bat. I remember my friends who kept reminding me, sitting behind their new two-wheeler, while I rode - to keep the speeds low and avoid sudden bursts. I think it too was called tuning the engine and some called it seasoning period till its first service. Seasoning was not garnish. It was patience made practical. There were other versions. New leather school shoes needed a few careful, blistered days before they softened and became yours. I remember having a fountain pen (For those from Hyderabad will remember th...

Coincidentally, I’ve been coming across references to tea and coffee over the past few weeks. An article on the Matcha craze in Japan. The sudden fall in coffee prices in India due to surplus production in Brazil (no, I’m not into commodities trading—I have a client who owns a coffee estate and exports, so I keep a Google alert on coffee). And during a quick trip to Hyderabad—famous for its Irani chai and Osmania biscuits—I found myself in a group where everyone ordered morning coffee except one person, who asked for tea. These little moments stirred up a range of thoughts about these two beverages. Some unfiltered free flowing stuff. I’d like to start by saying that I love both my cuppas—coffee and tea. If it is coffee then preferably filter coffee. We all know the regional split. In India, coffee is preferred in the South, while tea rules the North and most of the rest of the country. In North Indian homes, it’s always tea—sweet, milky, and boiling over with routine. In the South, co...

I just got my DSC (Digital Signature Certificate) renewed the other day, and it struck me with increasing use of DSC, the last option of the actual signing of the signature is vanishing. It took me back to when I was 15, sitting in the classroom, scribbling endlessly in the pages of my rough book—practicing my signature before the board exams. Back then, our teachers told us with great solemnity, “This is your identity. It can never change.” I tried loops, underlines, bold initials, even dramatic flourishes. My rough book was a battlefield of squiggles, each one asking, Is this me? An uncle - family friend, who fancied himself amongst other things, a graphologist, made it worse by explaining how a signature revealed personality—slanting upwards meant ambition, a straight line meant stability, clarity, etc. I wanted a signature I’d never get wrong, because it wasn’t just a mark. It was me on paper. Giving your signature felt like a rite of passage. Parents would hand you a cheque to wi...

Every now and then, a familiar surname floats past on my feed—attached to a guitar solo, a zonal cricket match, or a small gallery exhibit. Someone’s son is representing their university in a zonal cricket tournament. Someone’s daughter is performing Carnatic vocals at a college fest. A painting’s gone up in a local gallery. A guitar solo performed at a bar gig has made its way to an YouTube channel or Soundcloud.   These updates are almost always accompanied by a proud caption. But what catches my attention isn’t the post—it’s the parent, for they are my childhood friend. I remember that the dad was once a Ranji-level cricketer who now manages a regional office for a bank. I know the mother who once sketched brilliantly in the margins of notebooks but now heads a Pharma company. Another was an aspiring guitarist in a college band before trading riffs for revenue targets. Their dreams didn’t exactly die. They were deferred . Placed on pause by the demands of a different time. Ours ...

There are three things that triggered this post. One, I’ve been working on a marketing brief for a financial client. As part of it, I’ve been digging into the context of money and wealth. Two, few days back, I was talking to my mom, and she made a passing reference about a relative visiting my native place He is generally treated with high reverence as he has made himself “successful”, and doing good favours for the extended family. Well, how he became successful…that’s a topic for a different conversation. Three, a couple of weekends ago, I met an old friend for breakfast at a Udipi restaurant. After the dosas, puris, and filter coffee, the bill arrived, and like clockwork, we tossed in a 20 rupees tip — less a gesture of generosity, more a tick mark on the social contract. I was left with a nagging feeling on why didn’t I tip more. I thought to myself, if we were at a shiny café where the coffee costs three times more and comes with a heart on the foam, and there’s already a 40 INR s...